The Body In the Vestibule (9 page)
Read The Body In the Vestibule Online
Authors: Katherine Hall Page
It was but the leap of an instant to Inspector Ravier.
“You seemed to know their friend Inspector Ravier. Was he also at the Marists?”
“But of course, we all were. A very serious, dark little boy, Michel. Perhaps it was living with his grandparents. Still, the hot-blooded Gascogne is there, too. Never had trouble attracting women.”
“Is he married, then?”
“No. We tease him and you can be sure my wife has married him off innumerable times, yet nothing ever happened. He has girlfriends,
bien sûr,
but Michel is too set in his profession for a wife and family. I can't imagine him in this way.”
bien sûr,
but Michel is too set in his profession for a wife and family. I can't imagine him in this way.”
“Inspector Maigret has a wife.”
“Ah yes, Madame Maigret, a rare woman. Perhaps that is what Michel seeks. But in any case, Michel is not Maigret. And he is a reader of history and politics, not the
roman policier.”
roman policier.”
Â
New plates appeared for the cheese, brought to the long table on round, flat baskets. Tom had tried to get up to help clear but had been pulled back to his place. None of the other men offered.
Faith eyed the chevresâblues, St. Marcellins, morbiers, all sorts of triple cremes, temptingly set upon fans of deep green grape leavesâand realized it was true, you could always eat cheese. Madame Leblanc placed a large earthenware bowl before her. “This is a Lyonnais specialty,
cervelle
de canut
âwe take a fresh
fromage blanc
and add salt, pepper, a little white wine, a soupçon of oil and vinegar, some chives, and, of course, garlic. Please try some.”
cervelle
de canut
âwe take a fresh
fromage blanc
and add salt, pepper, a little white wine, a soupçon of oil and vinegar, some chives, and, of course, garlic. Please try some.”
Faith knew what
fromage blanc
wasâa superior cottage cheese that was served with heavy cream and sugar. She was doing a quick translation.
Cervelle de canut.
Could she be right? She looked over to Tom, who was watching her with evident enjoyment. “The brain of a silk worker?” she said aloud. The table burst into laughter.
fromage blanc
wasâa superior cottage cheese that was served with heavy cream and sugar. She was doing a quick translation.
Cervelle de canut.
Could she be right? She looked over to Tom, who was watching her with evident enjoyment. “The brain of a silk worker?” she said aloud. The table burst into laughter.
Paul said, “Again, it doesn't work to translate these things; just enjoy it.”
“I intend to,” she answered, and did. It was delicious.
Dessert was fruit, two enormous cherry
tartes
someone had brought and a plate piled high with those delicate beignets called
pets-de-nonne,
nun's farts, provided by Paul and Ghislaine for the fun of the name as much as the enjoyment of the pastry. Then they all took their coffee out into the garden and collapsed into the lawn chairs. It had been a
bon repas.
Monsieur Leblanc was soon asleep, with a large handkerchief knotted at each corner covering his balding head. Faith felt her own eyelids drooping. The sun was warm and the buzz of conversation soporific. She made no attempt to try to understand what they were saying and let the words simply drift around her.
tartes
someone had brought and a plate piled high with those delicate beignets called
pets-de-nonne,
nun's farts, provided by Paul and Ghislaine for the fun of the name as much as the enjoyment of the pastry. Then they all took their coffee out into the garden and collapsed into the lawn chairs. It had been a
bon repas.
Monsieur Leblanc was soon asleep, with a large handkerchief knotted at each corner covering his balding head. Faith felt her own eyelids drooping. The sun was warm and the buzz of conversation soporific. She made no attempt to try to understand what they were saying and let the words simply drift around her.
But despite the calm of the afternoon, her mind was filled with all those questions that would not go away. She'd been focused on the food and ambience, yet it was impossible to block out the events of the morning any longer.
She had to tell Tom it was not the same
clochard
and what that implied, but she knew it would upset himâto put it mildly. She didn't doubt he would believe her this time when she told him about the scratch, but where did they go from there? He was accomplishing so much at the university and was sure he would be able to finish his thesis with the notes he was taking. As she glanced over at him good-humoredly arguing with Paul's relations about the merits of
the French political system versus that of the United States, she hated to be the one to rain on his parade. But they never kept things from each otherâwell, he didn't and she hardly ever did. Was this one of those times?
clochard
and what that implied, but she knew it would upset himâto put it mildly. She didn't doubt he would believe her this time when she told him about the scratch, but where did they go from there? He was accomplishing so much at the university and was sure he would be able to finish his thesis with the notes he was taking. As she glanced over at him good-humoredly arguing with Paul's relations about the merits of
the French political system versus that of the United States, she hated to be the one to rain on his parade. But they never kept things from each otherâwell, he didn't and she hardly ever did. Was this one of those times?
If so, then what should she do? The obvious answer was to call Michel Ravier and tell him, but would
he
believe her? After all, he wasn't married to her. Of course, it would be nice to see him again ⦠.
he
believe her? After all, he wasn't married to her. Of course, it would be nice to see him again ⦠.
Then there was another choice.
Forget the whole thing and enjoy herself. It was no doubt something involving the
clochard
community, a kind of underclass, and as such had little effect on other people. This certainly seemed the path of least resistance. But she knew her feet weren't going to be following it. Murder was murder, no matter whether you had a home address or not.
clochard
community, a kind of underclass, and as such had little effect on other people. This certainly seemed the path of least resistance. But she knew her feet weren't going to be following it. Murder was murder, no matter whether you had a home address or not.
Monsieur Leblanc was snoring gently. Others were strolling about the garden and she could hear the children's shouts from the tennis court. She got up and went into the house in search of Ghislaine. Faith suddenly felt the need of conversation.
Inside the house, she followed the direction of the laughter she heard and emerged from the long hall to step down into the large sunny kitchen, where it appeared most of the women had gathered. Some were still cleaning up; others sat with coffee and cigarettes around the table. The kitchen was what some Aleford ladies of her acquaintance were striving desperately to replicate in Pierre Deux, Ethan Allen, or whatever they could affordâCountry French. Here pewter chargers, pitchers, and faience plates from Gien were displayed on the shelves of antique cupboards. Carved mahogany chests for linens and cutlery, a towering armoire for staple goods, and mismatched chairs with rush seats lined the walls. There were worn rust-colored tiles on the floor and more decorative ones on the wall behind the stove. This
cuisine
was the real thing.
cuisine
was the real thing.
“Faith!” Ghislaine called from a small pantry where
the sink was located. “We thought you were taking a
petite sieste
with my father-in-law. No, that doesn't sound right, although I'm sure Henri would not mind.” Everyone laughed. “We should have come to get you. Come sit with us,” she finished. “I'll join you in a moment.”
the sink was located. “We thought you were taking a
petite sieste
with my father-in-law. No, that doesn't sound right, although I'm sure Henri would not mind.” Everyone laughed. “We should have come to get you. Come sit with us,” she finished. “I'll join you in a moment.”
Faith went into the pantry and picked up a dish towel, over Ghislaine's protestations, and started to dry the silverware.
“I did think I might nod off,” Faith said, “all the lovely food and the sunshine, but somehow sleep evaded me.”
Ghislaine paused in her work and looked at Faith searchingly.
“You do not seem to be the same cheerful
fille
we knew when you first came. Is it still this business with the
clochard?
It's not the baby, is it?”
fille
we knew when you first came. Is it still this business with the
clochard?
It's not the baby, is it?”
Tom and Faith had told them at dinner Saturday night about the whole strange experience. The Leblancs had expressed concern for the unpleasantness and hoped it would not spoil the visit. Faith was so busy reassuring them it wouldn't that she had almost convinced herself. But this was Sunday now and there was no reassurance anymore.
“Oh, the baby is a dream so far. Much easier than the first time. It's not that,” Faith hastened to say. “But you're right, I am upset about the
clochard.
It doesn't seem so simple as it did at first and I am wondering what to do.”
clochard.
It doesn't seem so simple as it did at first and I am wondering what to do.”
Ghislaine looked puzzled. “You mean something else has happened?”
“Yes, in a way,” Faith replied. She wasn't sure she ought to involve Ghislaine when she hadn't even told Tom yet, but certainly Ghislaine knew more about Lyon and its inhabitants.
“About these
clochards.
Where do they go to get help, or for food? Surely there must be some who cannot support themselves on the street.” Faith had decided that the key to it all must be with the
clochards
and their way of life, something she knew very little about. “In the United States,
we have shelters where they can go for food and a place to sleep, though they are still inadequate for the numbers.”
clochards.
Where do they go to get help, or for food? Surely there must be some who cannot support themselves on the street.” Faith had decided that the key to it all must be with the
clochards
and their way of life, something she knew very little about. “In the United States,
we have shelters where they can go for food and a place to sleep, though they are still inadequate for the numbers.”
Ghislaine appeared relieved. Apparently, Madame Fairchildâwho was, to be sure, a minister's wifeâwas simply concerned about these poor unfortunates, nothing more.
“Of course, we have them here, as well. The Armée du Salut, Secours Catholique, Emmaus, and the Restaurants du Coeur. But most prefer the street and the trash bins, as you have seen only too clearly.”
“Then there must be one of these shelters close to us.” Faith was thinking out loud.
“Oh yes, there's a Soupe Populaire in rue Millet. Although Paul would scold me for calling it that, even though everyone does. Soupes Populaires existed in the twenties and after the war for poverty-stricken and jobless people, not
clochards.
”
clochards.
”
A soup kitchen was a soup kitchen as far as Faith was concerned and she was sure she could find out more there about the two
clochards
âif indeed the man sitting outside St. Nizier now
was
a
clochard.
It wasn't certain, but it seemed logical that whoever they were, they would go to the nearest place for free food.
clochards
âif indeed the man sitting outside St. Nizier now
was
a
clochard.
It wasn't certain, but it seemed logical that whoever they were, they would go to the nearest place for free food.
The dishes were all dried and they joined the other women around the table, who seemed in no hurry to get back to their respective mates. Faith settled in comfortably and listened to the gossip, talk of offspring, and speculation on hemlines with a familiar feelingâthe company of women.
One
femme
was busy stitching together small triangles of bright calico, and seeing Faith's glance, she said,
“Le patchwork.
Just like you American women do. It is quite the rage here. We are all busy makingâwhat is your word?âquilts.” Faith did not want to disillusion the woman, but her own forays into quilt making had consisted of getting others to do it for her, especially in the case of a quilt top
she'd purchased at a house auction in Maine, which had led to a treasure hunt and more. “Oh yes, it's very popular where I live, also,” she said. Her friend and neighbor Pix Miller, whose car sported a bumper sticker that read I'M A QUILTER AND MY HOUSE IS IN PIECES, kept telling Faith that if she could do a running stitch, she could quilt. But it was the
number
of running stitches one had to do, Faith reminded her. She was glad to meet a French quilt maker and it would be something to write to Pix about. Perhaps the two women could start to exchange patterns and eventually their children would meet and marry, and all because of a few scraps of cloth. Life could be like that, Faith believed.
femme
was busy stitching together small triangles of bright calico, and seeing Faith's glance, she said,
“Le patchwork.
Just like you American women do. It is quite the rage here. We are all busy makingâwhat is your word?âquilts.” Faith did not want to disillusion the woman, but her own forays into quilt making had consisted of getting others to do it for her, especially in the case of a quilt top
she'd purchased at a house auction in Maine, which had led to a treasure hunt and more. “Oh yes, it's very popular where I live, also,” she said. Her friend and neighbor Pix Miller, whose car sported a bumper sticker that read I'M A QUILTER AND MY HOUSE IS IN PIECES, kept telling Faith that if she could do a running stitch, she could quilt. But it was the
number
of running stitches one had to do, Faith reminded her. She was glad to meet a French quilt maker and it would be something to write to Pix about. Perhaps the two women could start to exchange patterns and eventually their children would meet and marry, and all because of a few scraps of cloth. Life could be like that, Faith believed.
“How is Dominique?” Michèle asked a woman across the table. “Is she worried about the
bac?”
She turned to Faith in explanation. “The
baccalauréat
is a very difficult, perhaps even ridiculous, exam French teenagers must take to get their diplomas.”
bac?”
She turned to Faith in explanation. “The
baccalauréat
is a very difficult, perhaps even ridiculous, exam French teenagers must take to get their diplomas.”
The woman sighed and put her cup down. “Who can tell? Whenever we ask her, she just says not to nag so much and everything is fine. That is her answer for everything. âWhere are you going?' âWhere were you?' It is as if she has a secret life. And the way she dressesâlike the circus!”
Everyone laughed and Michèle reassured her, “They are all like her, these
adolescentes,
secretive and so very serious. Not like us.
We
were perfect.”
adolescentes,
secretive and so very serious. Not like us.
We
were perfect.”
A slight feeling of nausea came over Faith, which she knew had nothing to do with either food or fetus. It arrived whenever she contemplated “Ben, the Teenage Years.” And now, foolishly, she had signed up for a sequel.
Ghislaine was talking. “We are never satisfied. I get worried because Stéphanie seems too good. The only thing she ever criticizes is my accent when I speak English to Faith!”
Faith loved Ghislaine's delightfully accented English and much preferred it to Stephanie's more correct British version, learned at school. She doubted that her own attempts
at speaking French carried the same charm as Ghislaine's phrases: “You have learned me so much,” she had told Faith and Tom Saturday night.
at speaking French carried the same charm as Ghislaine's phrases: “You have learned me so much,” she had told Faith and Tom Saturday night.
She continued to extol her daughter's virtues with a mixture of pride and concern. “She still talks to us, is polite, and does what we ask. It's not natural. When I think of what my poor mother endured!”
“Yes, I know all this,” said Dominique's mother. “And”âshe looked skeptically at Ghislaineâ“Stéphanie is only thirteen, yes? Wait,
chérie,
a few more years. It's so hard to understand. Martin and I are good parents. We are not wardens who insist Dominique stay by our side or even that she go to
rallyes,
where she might be with some nice children.”
chérie,
a few more years. It's so hard to understand. Martin and I are good parents. We are not wardens who insist Dominique stay by our side or even that she go to
rallyes,
where she might be with some nice children.”
“Rallyes!
Those ancient elephants!” Michele exclaimed. “Cécile, think how bored you were when Tante Louise made you go, and besides, what seventeen-year-old girl wants to meet ânice children'? She wants to meet the opposite, then maybe later she will settle down and marry someone you wanted her to meet in the first place.”
Those ancient elephants!” Michele exclaimed. “Cécile, think how bored you were when Tante Louise made you go, and besides, what seventeen-year-old girl wants to meet ânice children'? She wants to meet the opposite, then maybe later she will settle down and marry someone you wanted her to meet in the first place.”
“What are these
ârallyes'?”
Faith asked, images of antique cars racing incongruously to mind.
ârallyes'?”
Faith asked, images of antique cars racing incongruously to mind.
“They are very correct little gatherings arranged by a particular sector of Lyonnais parents for more years than anyone remembers, so little Marie or little Louis will meet a suitable mate. In the winter, there are dances and in the warmer months, tennis or pool parties. I hesitate to say
parties
, because all this is sans alcohol and under the eyes of the parents. There used to be more of them, and of course nice boys like my Paul were always invited, but I'm happy to say we met normallyâon the metro,” Ghislaine explained.
parties
, because all this is sans alcohol and under the eyes of the parents. There used to be more of them, and of course nice boys like my Paul were always invited, but I'm happy to say we met normallyâon the metro,” Ghislaine explained.
“I know
rallyes
are old-fashioned,” Cécile said, “yet at least our parents knew where we were.”
rallyes
are old-fashioned,” Cécile said, “yet at least our parents knew where we were.”
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